Janet Hardy in Hollywood Part 10

Her mother answered, but then summoned Janet.

"It's the Times," said Mrs. Hardy.

Janet took the instrument and recognized the voice of the city editor of the local paper.

"I need a good first person story of what took place inside the bus, Janet," said Pete Benda. "Can you come down to the office and write a yarn? You've had enough experience with your high school page to do the trick and do it well."

"But it all seems so far away and kind of vague now," protested Janet.

"Listen, Janet, I've got to have that story." Pete was cajoling now.

"Haven't we done a lot of favors for your high school page?"

"Yes, but--."

"Then come down and write the story. I'll save a good spot on page one for it."

Janet hung up the telephone, feeling a little weak and limp. Pete Benda was insistent and she would have to go through with it.

"The Times wants me to come down and write a first person story of what happened last night," she explained to her mother. "I didn't want to, but Pete Benda, the city editor, just insisted. He's been so good about helping us out on the school page when we've been in jams that I couldn't say no."

"Of course not, and you'll do a good piece of writing. No don't worry about it. Run along. I'll have a little lunch ready when you get back."

Janet put on her coat, but paused at the door and called to her mother.

"If Helen comes before I get back, tell her I'll be along soon."

Janet enjoyed the walk to the Times office for the air was invigorating.

The Times was housed in a narrow two-story building with its press in the bas.e.m.e.nt. The news department was on the second floor with the city editor's desk in front of a large window where he could look the full length of the main business street of Clarion.

Pete Benda, thin and too white-faced for his own good health, saw Janet come in.

"Here's a desk and typewriter you can use," he said. "I'm counting on having that story in less than an hour. You'll have to come through, young lady."

Janet flushed at Pete's appellation, for the city editor of the Times was only a little older than she. Oh well, perhaps Pete was twenty-two, but she could remember when he had been in high school, playing football, and one of the best ends in the state.

Janet rolled some copy paper into the typewriter and looked rather blankly at the sheet. It was hard now to concentrate on the events which had been so tragically real the night before. If she could only get the first sentence to click the rest would come easily. She tried one phrase.

That wouldn't do; not enough action in it. Ripping the sheet of paper from the typewriter, she inserted another and tried again. This was better. Perhaps it would do; at least she had started, and the words came now in a smooth flow for Janet could type rapidly, thanks to a commercial course in her junior year.

Pete Benda, on his way to the composing room, looked over her shoulder and read the first paragraph but Janet, now engrossed in the story, hardly noticed him. Pursing his lips in a low whistle, a trick that he did when pleased, Pete went on about his work.

Janet finished one page and then another. Even a third materialized under the steady tapping of her fingers on the keyboard. Then she was through.

Three pages of copy, three pages of short, sharp sentences, of adjectives that caught and held the imagination, that gave a picture of the cold and the apprehension of those in the bus, of the relief, almost hysterical, when rescue came.

Janet didn't read it over. It was the best she could do. If Pete wanted to change it that was all right with her. She put the three sheets of copy paper together and placed them on his desk. Then she slipped into her coat and went down stairs. She had finished the story well within the limit set by the city editor and she turned toward home and the rehearsal she and Helen had planned for the afternoon.

_Chapter IX_ BIG NEWS

Janet had gone less than half a block when she heard someone calling to her. Looking back she saw Pete Benda leaning from an upper window of the Times office. He was waving Janet's story in his hand.

"Great story, Janet," he shouted. "I'll send you a box of candy. Thanks a lot."

Janet smiled and waved at Pete. It was just like the impetuous city editor to lean out his window and shout his thoughts at the top of his voice to someone down the street. But she was glad to know that the story met Pete's approval. But as for the candy. Well Pete was always making promises like that. If he had kept them all he would have needed a private candy factory.

Helen was waiting when Janet reached home and she waved a letter at her friend.

"It's from Dad," she cried. "He says he's about through on the picture he's making at present and will be home without fail for my graduation.

Wants me to send him the dates of the play, of the banquet and of everything. Also wants your Dad to make sure the fis.h.i.+ng will be good and to line up a good plot where he can find plenty of worms."

"That's splendid news. I'm so happy," said Janet, who knew how much Helen missed her father's companions.h.i.+p at times, for when he was in Clarion they were almost inseparable. But Janet realized that Mr. Thorne was exceedingly smart in keeping Helen in Clarion rather than taking her west with him to the movie city where she would be subject to all of the tensions and nervous activity there. Here in Clarion she was growing up in entirely normal surroundings where she would have a sane and sensible outlook on life and its values.

"I phoned your Dad, and he says he'll have to start hunting good creeks just as soon as the snow's off."

"That kind of puts Dad on the spot, for he's got to deliver on the worms and the fis.h.i.+ng," smiled Janet.

"Oh, well, Dad doesn't care so much about getting any fish. He just likes to get out and loaf on a sunny creek bank and either talk with your Dad or doze. He calls that a real holiday."

Janet went upstairs and got the mimeographed sheets with the synopsis of the play and the part she was to try out for. After the drama of last night, that of "The Chinese Image" seemed shallow and forced.

The role of Abbie Naughton, who was more than a little light-headed and fun loving until a crisis came along, was comparatively easy for it called for little actual acting ability and Janet was frank enough to admit that she was no actress.

Helen, trying for the straight lead, carried by Gale Naughton, had always liked to think that she had real dramatic talent and Janet was willing to admit that her companion had more than average ability. At least Helen was pretty enough to carry the role off whether she had any dramatic ability or not.

Coaching each other, they gave their own interpretations of the parts which they were trying for. An hour and then another slipped away. The brightness faded from the afternoon and Janet turned on a reading light.

"I think we've done all we can for one day. If we keep on we'll go stale.

Let's forget the tryouts for a while."

"You can," retorted Helen, "but I've simply got to win that part. What would Dad think of me if I didn't?"

"I don't believe he'd think any the less of you," smiled Janet, "but I'll admit it would be nice for you to win the leading role and I'll do everything I can to help you."

"Of course, I know you will. It was awfully small of me to say that."

The doorbell rang and Janet answered it. A boy handed her a package.

"It's for Miss Hardy. She live here?"

"I'm Janet Hardy."

"Okay. I just wanted to be sure this was the right place."

"This looks interesting," said Janet, returning to the living room with the large box. Her mother, who had heard the doorbell, joined them.

Janet tore off the wrapping, opened the cardboard outer box, and pulled out a two pound box of a.s.sorted chocolates. On top of the box was a clipping torn from the front page of the Times.